


I Used to be Better

by Carbocat



Series: The Skeletons of Life [3]
Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy
Genre: Depression, Head Injury, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Seizures
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-05-20 14:01:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14895920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carbocat/pseuds/Carbocat
Summary: There were not better days in Petersburg.An actual sequel to I Pity You, I Pity Me.





	1. Chapter 1

Anatole was oblivious to most things but he knew of his reputation.

He knew of his status, where he stood and how high to hold his head. He was not so unaware as to not notice the way high society tilted their noses up at the likes of him and his gaiety. He was not so unaware to not hear what Moscow elitist such as Marya Dmitriyevna whispered behind his back.

He simple had not given a damn.

There was a war going on and he had always intended on having as much fun as he could. He saw no reason to worry about the prudish small thoughts of simple boring women.

It was a fun part to play and he played it well – the airhead prince, the ridiculous scoundrel, the lover in many, many bedrooms. It was a show and a joy, an adventure to be among the menaces of society and much more preferable the to be held in regard of it.

Dolokhov had tagged along on his every transgression so it only made since that he tag along on this one.

The troika jolted and shook down paved roads, and Balaga laughed. Anatole laughed, and felt ill, and was _alive_. There was a war going on and big, big hands were a dangerous thing.

Anatole prided himself on the roles he played. He developed his persona, his character, every moved and action precise and perfected. Though, in the silence of the night and the cold wisp of the winter air, that mask slipped, and slipped, and even Dolokhov found it unnerving how small the boy beneath it was.

Dolokhov was told once that Anatole had been a quiet kid.

He had laughed at the notion that Anatole had ever been anything more than the attention seeking nuisance that he was the day he met him and still was on this day but Hélène had insisted. He had been pretty and girlish, a face of angles and planes like that of an abstract painting. He had not been cute the way children were supposed to, he had been marveled at like museum art and had shied from the light.

She spoke of great anxieties regarding crowded ballrooms and how it did not fade until her brother could hide behind the piano and disappeared when the violin transformed him. After that, it was characters and acts, and large flamboyant coats.

He eventually grew into his features, into his role.

Dolokhov thought that maybe one day, he would take the time to peel beneath the edges and tap along the cracks until the mask was as ruined and broken as the prince’s mind, his eye, his ruined hands. He wanted to devour the character to the boy he’d seen beneath, to the man that he had loved and lost, and found again.

Instead, he steadied an unsteady prince as the troika slowed and he gathered the bags. He allowed Anatole to collect himself and fix his mask as he stared with one seeing eye at the small ran-down manor before them.

Anatole embraced Balaga the way one embraced old friends, hugging the driver and kissing his cheek, offering a cheeky prayer for him a safe journey and many, many wonderful adventures. He smiled a lopsided grin that faded into the evening sky when the troika disappeared down the road and a burly stoat woman walked onto the porch.

Anatole fidgeted.

He shifted uneasily on his feet when she barked, “Fyodor.”

“It is me,” Dolokhov replied easily, spreading his arms out to present himself. “And I have brought with me a prince as I foretold. You look well.”

“My eyes are not what they used to be, Fedya,” She said, a grin splitting her face as she stepped off the porch. “Come now, embrace your mother, my son.”

Dolokhov’s smile was not one that Anatole had ever seen. It was a joyousness that he’d seen neither in battle or in Moscow, an elated relief as he started towards the small manor and the open arms of the stoat woman.

He paused in his step like he had forgotten something and turned back towards the road, prompting Anatole to follow, “Do you wish to freeze, young prince?”

“No.”

“Then there is no use standing there by the road, now is there?”

“After all that you have done, my f-friend, I do not wish for much anymore.”

“You say that,” He laughed, pulling on his sleeve of his green coat to force Anatole to move. “But alas, tomorrow will be a different tune. Now come, I wish you to meet my mother. It has been long overdue.”

It was evident that the journey weighed heavily on Anatole.

After polite mumbled introductions and Anatole’s voice stuttering and slurring with exhaustion pulling him, he became unresponsive to conversation until Dolokhov led him to the backroom that they would be sharing. He pushed the prince back so his head rested on a pillow and pulled the blankets around him, getting a mumbled ‘thanks’ as sleep over took him.

For days upon arriving, Anatole mostly lounged.

On most days, he did not even bother to change from his bed clothes as he dozed in stiff-backed chairs with unread books slipping from twitching hands, if he got from the bed at all. The stress and the toll of the journey left him exhausted and unable to overcome it, bringing about rounds of nausea, severe migraines, and homesickness.

Dolokhov feared that he was falling into a sort of depression.

On better days, Anatole smiled.

On better days, it felt like all of Petersburg was smiling.

He would lay his head on Dolokhov’s mother’s lap and would speak with her about inconsequential things as he listed off strings of proses for letters she penned. Sometimes they sat in silence, her fingers carding through his hair in between her knitting.

Somedays, Anatole brought out his violin.

He’d smooth his fingers over the strings and the wood, clean the instrument and place it carefully upon his shoulder. He would not play, he’d tell her that there was no song in his heart.

“Unfortunately,” He would smile, brush his hair back over his eyes. “I hope to find a new one someday.”

Dolokhov heard him admit once, unprompted and vulnerable, “I long for my mother more than anybody but she has gone too far beyond my reach. I fear I will always miss her.”

“It is natural to miss what we once had, dear.”

“I know, I – I fear that she would- would not even recognize me,” He admitted, voice drifting to where Dolokhov was sitting in the kitchen. “I am very different now.”

“I know, child,” His mother hummed, petting down his hair. “I know.”

“I – I do not wish to be but most days, I live,” He told her. “On – on the bad d-days, I wish I could be with my mother as I – believe that she is in a place of little pain. I do not wish that she was with me, though.”

Dolokhov paused, listening closer as his heart sunk into his gut, “This world is – hard and she is – _was_ very soft. I do not think she would en-joy it a second time.”

“I – I believe it is guilt,” He continued. “The feeling that pulls on me when I think of leaving Hélène on this Earth alone, it is guilt. We are quite close.”

“And I cannot leave, Fedya,” He added, a small smile coming into his voice. “He would smile too little and live a life of mundanity and simplicity, it is below him and I shall never allow such.”

His mother chucked and ruffled blond hair, “You have a young soul, my child.”

“I – thank you,” He said politely and assured her. “I would not try s-such drastic measures. Do not tell – please, do not tell anybody.”

“I will not, child, but you find me in those moments and allow me to make it better.”

Dolokhov was not a man of many emotions and some would even go so far as to say he was a man of none, that the only joy he felt was in the rage of battle. Like Anatole, he played that part as well he could.

Like Anatole, that mask did sometimes slip.


	2. Chapter 2

“Fedya, you are beautiful.”

The silky smooth words spread like slow molasses across his ears, the same way thin arms draped across his shoulders and bodily weight rested in his lap. His book was tilted down and pressed against his chest as a soft private kiss was pressed to his cheek before settling back down against his thigh.

“Hi,” Anatole said to him softly.

Dolokhov closed the book that he’d been reading, “Hello.”

“You have a soul most beautiful,” He said in his slow hum, as if the words were simple fact, as if Dolokhov’s soul was not dripped in blood and teeming with relenting death. “The war could not take your soul, as it has already taken some many.”

The war could not take his soul because he did not have one. The war could not take from a man that had cruelness in his heart, a hardness to his bones, that did not bore a monster just provided him home.

Dolokhov knew who he was, _what_ he was, and he knew that a love for a mother, and a sister, and a ridiculous prince did not change that simple fact.

He sighed and he carded his fingers into white blond hair, “Anatole, the first time I met you, I punched you in the face. That is not a mark of a good soul.”

“Aye, my soul is unmarred and I hit you right back.”

That turned Dolokhov’s flat expression into a tilted smirk, “Aye, you did and it was so pathetic that it took the fight out of my bones. I had to drop my fists and teach you to fold your fist correctly, least you get yourself killed. We both know that you are not the one to plan accordingly.”

“You stayed by my side though, eh?”

“I did,” Dolokhov said, his face in full-tilt as a smile curled his lips, “Yes, Anatole, I did. Is there a reason for this rambling?”

It had been a better day within a week of not-so-great days. Anatole shifted so that the violin rested against his chest was raised up to his chin. His fingers pressed to the string but he did not strike a chord. He had not played and mostly like, he wouldn’t but the day was clear and the pain that was so ever present in his face was faded.

He was dressed and washed, and happy to interrupt Dolokhov’s reading.

The truth to the matter was that Dolokhov would gladly listen to him chatter and ramble until Napoleon marched into Petersburg himself, until death’s touch laid upon his heart and he perished. He needed no other reason to want these slow soft syllables of seemingly random happenstances other than the fact that he _could_ , that he had almost lost this. Lost his prince.

“Yes, I have reasons for all that I do, Fedya.”

“And that reason has often been because you were thinking too little and too small.”

“But I _was_ thinking.”

“Oh, yes, but not with that pretty head of yours,” He said, tapping lightly against his forehead. “It was always that childish heart of yours, it is an idiot.”

“Fedya,” Anatole said with a laugh and a mocking pout. “I am a lover, it is not my fault that I am swayed by love and gaiety, not by logic and standards of rigidity.”

“And neither of responsibility, society rule, or the sanctity of marriage,” He scoffed. Anatole grinned.

He nodded.

“Yes, now you see,” He told him. “You are of my greatest friends, Dolokhov. I wish you to know that I have – because of the state that I had been in that I hold that matter even more dear to my heart than I had before. I was… quite broken, I would not have blamed you for not standing by.”

“You were injured, Anatole.”

“Very well, but I suffered from injuries that I could not and will not ever be able to mend, not completely,” He said, particularly and uncomfortably serious for Dolokhov. “I will never be who I once was and you know that. Yet, you stood with me when I could not stand myself.”

Dolokhov had cursed and swore, and threaten, and _beaten_ the need for Anatole to grow up into him. He had shaken him and demanded that he get his head out of the clouds and his mind out of the bedroom, that there was a war going on. He told Anatole to mature because if he did not than Anatole would die a _boy_.

He hated seeing it now.

He hated the maturity in his eyes, the heavy set of experience weighted on his face. He knew that boy was beneath this in the same way that he knew there was still a small boy inside of him but – he found it particularly jarring when these flashes of maturity showed.

“I care little for what you used to be, Anatole,” He told him bluntly. “I do not live in the past and thus do not care for which was left behind in it. I only care that you are here now. There is a war going on out there, we have lost too many.”

“You are my deepest friend, I would not let you be lost to me because of – cruel acts or un-intentional actions,” Anatole stumbled slightly over his words. “I wish to thank you for those words, they were very kind, Dolokhov the assassin, the secretly kind-hearted.”

“What has put these thoughts into your head and left you looking back at unpleasant times?” Dolokhov asked. “Your recovery here is improving, no?”

“It is,” Anatole told him, leaning up just enough to sip his tea. There was a trimmer in his hand, ever-present and noticeable, but better than it had been.

Recovery was a slow process, and Anatole had never been one for slow things. Dolokhov had to constantly remind him to mind to his patience for it was greatly needed.

“Then what matters are bringing all of this to the forefront?”

He sat the cup down in its saucer carefully before announcing to him, “I believe now is the time that I visit my father.”

 

The Kuragin manor was an exercise in gross indulgence.

The manor was large and solid oak. It was beautiful, and empty, and haunted the halls with such obvious loneliness. Dolokhov felt shrunken and small just stepping foot in the place, he could not imagine the echoing isolation of absentee parents, in growing up where your worth only came from how bright, and pretty, and grand you could be in ballroom parties.

The Kuragin manor was the largest exhibit of why Anatole and Hélène  turned out the way they had. It was the rock that started rolling that led to big, big hands, and too much red, and Anatole’s violin being held and never played.

Dolokhov had suggested that Anatole wait before visiting.

Anatole had made up his mind.

They were seen to an office by a servant and told that Prince Vasili was speaking in the drawing room with investors, that he would be a moment.

Anatole slumped into a chair upon arriving, pressing his fingers into his eyes tiredly while Dolokhov remained standing. He held his tongue because it was clear to him that the midday sun must have agitated a headache on their walk over.

He held his tongue until he could hold it no longer, “We could leave at this very moment if you are regretting this decision, we could come back tomorrow.”

“We already made the journey, Fedya.”

“It was not one that was very far,” He pointed out. “We could travel by troika tomorrow.”  

“No, no, he already knows that I am here,” He sighed, rubbing his temples with both hands. “It will only make matters worse if I put this off.”

Dolokhov pressed his lips together and crossed his hands behind his back, resisting the urge to tell Anatole that if the headache that he wasn’t mentioning was as bad as he thought it was then maybe dealing with an ill-tempered prince was not the best idea.

He sighed to himself.

They’d never collectively or individually been known for their great ideas so instead he said, “Okay.”

“You can leave at any time,” He added. “You are still welcome with me at my uncle’s. My mother has already welcomed you with open arms, my sister adores you, and it is openly agreed that you are welcomed to say as long as you wish.”

“And I wish to return but my father should know of my whereabouts,” He hummed, eyes closed now and his head dipped forward to rest on his interlaced hands. It almost looked as if he was praying. “Surely it has reached him of my escapades in Moscow. It was said for so long that I was here when I was – well, when I was not. He could be concerned.”

It was more likely that Prince Vasili was not concerned.

It was _much_ more likely that Prince Vasili was unadulteratedly furious with his youngest son after hearing of the disastrous elopement with the Rostova girl, that he was angered into embarrassment. It was extremely more likely that instead of being concerned, Vasili had been fanning flames into fire ever since he received word of what happened and he would explode on his unexpecting son.

Dolokhov suggested, “You could write a letter.”

Anatole laughed at that but sobered quickly, shooting to his feet as the office door was pushed open, “F-Father.”


End file.
